My sister and I drove into Manhattan (formerly 'New Amsterdam') via -- what else? -- the Holland Tunnel. I took note of the Dutch names in a way I'd never done before: ran over the Brooklyn ('Breukelen') Bridge; crossed Bleecker Street; went to Stuyvesant Town and the Bouwerie -- as that ragged, overgrown farm of restaurant supply stores and failing flophouses was once spelled. And by coincidence, the apartment where I stayed in New York had a hip magazine in it that featured an article about Amsterdam. The writer described several of the swankier activities, buildings, hotels, and eateries in the city. He made Amsterdam sound like the most urbane, hospitable place in Europe if not the world. He said the people there were both beautiful and friendly, all riding their bikes around in concord and synchronicity. The canals were lovely. The bars and shopping were salutary, buoying. Everyone spoke English.
But without a single ugly word, the writer unerringly conveyed that he hated Amsterdam.
In his view, the place was a too-perfect utopia. The food surpassed edibility; the al fresco hotel bar at Blake's was so reposed and civilized that it gave him the urge to slaughter innocent children, or at least tear up the flower arrangements. The locals' sincere amiability was somehow robotic or sexless and thus offensive; the gorgeous buildings reeked of intelligence, style, and functionality gone horribly awry. Amsterdam was like a simulacrum of itself, gutted of its identity and postmodernly restuffed with its own myths. The writer sounded not only like he had read too much Baudrillard, but also had finally earned the right to enjoy himself and hated the world for bestowing such a heavy privilege upon him. So he took it out on Amsterdam.
I flew in on KLM, the Dutch national airline, and Lijsa met me at the airport with a new haircut that made her look more beautiful, and taller, than ever. The airport was clean and common. We hopped a gleaming bus back to Lijsa's apartment, on the western flank of the city, in an 'ethnic' neighborhood. Her place was plain and light: a fine crash-pad for a week or so. It had a little European galley kitchen with a narrow range and a tiny sink. You think they will impede good cooking, but I whipped up a few divine dinners in Lijsa's kitchen. We Americans stock our pantries with potato chips and canned soup, but Europeans invariably have good gourmet food lying around; so I was able spike my risotto with Lijsa's saffron, for example, and sip Campari one afternoon when I just happened to feel like a refreshing drink.
I had this mental picture of Amsterdam: friendly, fit Dutchmen and Dutchwomen wearing eco-friendly, climate-sensitive, odor-resistant, three-piece suits, made of an elastine fabric that allowed the Dutch to pedal sleek, $4,000 twelve-speeds down amply channeled, smoothly paved bike corridors, either cleverly raised above or grooved below the quiet, balletic traffic of diesel-burning smart-cars and a high-speed, solar-powered light rail system. The Dutch would ride their bikes to genial, efficient, well-lit workplaces, with canal views and generous lunch breaks, where they would commit sensible hours to important, enlightened jobs -- like stopping internet pornographers or SARS or Philip Morris. Alstublieft ('please'), they would say politely, a lot, and mean it. Sneeuwscheuvel, I'd reply, because that was all the Dutch I knew, and I would mean it, too.
